Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Experience · #1759133
A short story in letter format.
|Soft swirls of smoke|
linger for a time to
twirl timidly and perform
their melancholy dance.
Then curtains close
and reality returns
Wishing I could fade away
with the temporary smoke ballet.
You have no idea how much I don't care. No offence is intended by that and I am not only
indifferent to your troubles. All of the tragedies of this world barely phase me any more because I
choose not to allow them in. My bubble of selfishness shields me from any exterior attack. I humbly
apologize and acknowledge that I am quite the villain. If it makes you feel any better, my protective
bubble is conjured from a recipe of self loathing, confusion and a hunger for eventual self destruction.
There is too much darkness in this world to take in and there's way too much to illuminate with forced
positivity. Life it seems is a metaphor that is far too complex for me to understand and my attempts
have left me hopeless.
Even rounding up enough energy to write this is a challenge, and writing has been one of the
few activities ever able to stir any enthusiasm in me. In fact, if you will allow me to be reflective near
my end, I will confess that being an author was the only role for me that could have fit and writing was
my true love. You doubt that is true and are justified because you have seen the pain which my love has
cost me and are aware of its unrequited nature. My infatuation with writing has been detrimental and I
will leave this world with empty pockets. The art of writing is a skill I shall never master and the prize
for perfection will never be mine. I know what the reward for great writing is though. Its existence has
teased me like an allusive squiggle in the corner of my eye. It is simply an answer. Maybe a truth
blanketed in a comprehensive metaphor, that will bring clarity and understanding. I have always been
so confused and frustrated about everything; my mess of a life and this mess of a world. I am sure that
if I could just organize this chaos onto paper, I could make some sense of it. Stories are not just another
form of mindless entertainment. Great writing is supposed to inspire self discovery and so I have
always been looking for the perfect metaphor to win the prize of clarity. However, I leave in a fog of
confusion and will be thankful for the release of its pressure pressing in on me. Life is a headache and
there is no magic pill to ease the pain. However, this is not an original idea or the perfect metaphor.
Although there is no magic pill to heal a tortured soul, I have certainly looked for one. Growing
has just been the evolution of various distractions to separate myself from a curious case of lingering
negativity. Distractions come in many forms and levels of severity. People can be distractions. I have
had friends. We have played our parts in the strict theatre of socialization and even had a bit of
fictitious fun. I'm no good at it really. I always fumble my stage directions or forget a key line. Then the
bright lights go out and everyone remembers that they're just acting and the show is meaningless.
Maybe I am paranoid but I doubt that I have ever had a relationship which was not built on a
foundation of lies.
As you know, I have also been useless with connections of a romantic nature. My endeavours
have admittedly been damaging to both parties every time. Honestly, I never wanted to add to any other
person's misery. Hurting you was a regret but necessary to reaffirm my villainous identity. Romance is
like cutting but without all the gore; a punishment and a problem. I am an emotional masochist
because blood makes me queasy and I think cutting would draw attention or worse, create pity.
Besides why take the trouble to slice your arm up when there are tons of people just itching to stab
your heart out for the small price of everything; your morals, your values, your self respect, your
standards and your pride. Though I doubt I have ever had much pride. This surprises me because
I am a avid fan of the deadly sins but pride hardly seems one. Everyone should have some pride.
I certainly wish my career had warranted me some.
Television acted as my first distraction. It was never a very efficient one and basically just
powered my greed and envy. I have since abandoned it -halleluiah, I have found something to be proud of-
but its not just television though. I really mean every new form of technical entertainment. The
computers, the video games, the movies and all the rest have actually made it possible to live through
the experiences of others. Others who aren't even real. Sadly, I spent much of life like this, living
vicariously through the moving pictures on a box. I didn't even discriminate. I would watch anything
from Oprah to Jerry Springer and considered them of identical quality by the way. I swallowed up all of
the modern capitalist propaganda and ate it up with the enthusiasm of a fat kid at a buffet. I was just so
very hungry to live, but realized eventually how impossible that is to do from one's couch. I think the
epiphany came when I was watching a Swiffer commercial and hoped to God that I was never that
enthused by a broom. I had to escape society's endless want of things before I was forty and filling
an oversized house with useless crap.
So I escaped a life of secondary experiences which would have left me feeling empty and
wanting to fill the void with material junk. I wanted to fill the void with happiness, understanding, and
meaning but I would settle for anything because I feared the old couch so much. I would rather feel
pain then nothing at all. Pain is a distraction in itself but a horrible one since it too requires distractions.
The most effective is certainly alcohol but drunks tend to die young and I wanted time to think
of that perfect metaphor. Plus I hate the taste of Listerine and rather not identify as a shitty version of
Poe. He is the standard and father of horror -my favourite genre of writing- that I have idolized since
Besides marijuana is much more sustainable as far as addictions go. Now, I feel awful for
saying I am addicted to weed (This is one of the pet names I shall use from now on because marijuana
sounds like a gross reproductive organ.) It's very difficult to become dependent on pot. Trust me, I have
put a lot of energy in it. I know many stable people who use it leisurely on occasion but as you know
my sanity is a little rickety at times and I have abused something again, that is only guilty of being
beautiful. There is nothing else that can bring me from sobbing uncontrollably to dancing rather
rhythmically, in a matter of minutes. Plus my liver is pristine and I think I benefit from all the napping.
Now, I say I am addicted to chronic and automatically the blame is shot at my favourite herb.
This is truly unjust. I am not addicted to ganja -so many terrific nicknames- because of its terrible
corrupting powers. I was not a shining and enthusiastic youth before I first blazed myself into blissful
oblivion. No, I was a rather depressed and dramatic teen, who was on the lookout for a pause in the
constant stream of negativity running through my veins. When I blaze -or smoke marijuana because
you have never been fond of stoner slang or the environment which it comes from- I usually fall right
to sleep. Pot is a method of time travel for me and allows me to skip annoying bits of my day. Apart
from that benefit, I will simply remind you that chronic makes everything feel, taste, look, and sound
better. Something that can entertain me for an hour, with the pleasure of just rubbing my own scalp is
However, I will admit that my drug habits have numbed me so effectively that I am able to
behave in ways which better men would not. That protective bubble I mentioned is often clouded with
wisps of fine smelling smoke. A joint can separate me from any pain but it will also prevent any true
happiness. Being high is the allusion of happiness but the smoke always fades. I'm not going to blame
weed for the indifferent way I have treated you. As I said before, all blame must rest with me.
I didn't believe your resolve in that initial note you sent me. I knew you were drunk when you
wrote it and I thought you were just trying to scare me into forming a commitment. Either way, I would
of gotten over the loss with a few hits. Surprisingly being a stoner hasn't completely ruined my
memory because I can recall exactly what you sent:
I think we have to end this. It hurts to much to bear. I loved you if that means anything. I know you never did.
Its OK. Neither would I. I hope you have a happy life. I'm sorry and thankful for everything. Sorry.
I won't lie, it struck me as a tad melodramatic. Mostly I couldn't fathom why you were
so apologetic. I figured you had cheated on me and forgive me but that suspicion has lasted the test of
time. When you called me later that week, I silently mourned your absent self restraint. You had come
back as I knew you would. I have never fully understood why women always choose the worst and
most messed up guy to commit their love to. I suppose I have reaped the benefits of that phenomenon.
I ought to thank all the shitty fathers out there.
I remember you were crying when you called. You were not making much sense but then again
you never do. I began to put the pieces together when you spoke of a dark basement, futile tears,
complete terror and blue bruises that you had not wanted me to see. You said it was your fault and that
has always led me to believe that the act was more consensual then you put on. I remember my reaction
was to say, “Well that happens...” If it makes any difference, I also remember I had smoked about two
bowls of premium chronic with a little bit of dull hash. What followed was the closest you have ever
been to escaping me but greedy as I am, I began a convincing act of manipulation. I demanded his
name because I knew you would never give me one and swore empty threats in his direction.
We have been together since, on and off, for the last many years. I have cheated on you and
insulted you by not even hiding my affairs. Worse, I have dragged you with me while I drowned in
failure and poverty. Why am I like this? I don't know. Its part of what I wish I could understand. I can't
even go for the standard Dr Phil excuse and say I was abused or not loved. You have loved me far more
then I have deserved. My childhood was no great tragedy and does not begin to compare with the
sufferings of many others. The only criticism I have of my parents is that they had no respect for
innocence. My mother found my only friend a furry nuisance and disliked how he shed on our green
swede couch. She took him at night to be put down so I wouldn't have one of my fits. My father had the
rather conservative belief that lessons are best learned in an atmosphere of terror. I will never forget my
left from right because he would hit me on the left side of my head and then scream left. Right was the
same and no more moral.
Somewhere the world's tiniest violin is playing. Getting smacked around as kid is hardly an
excuse for my failure of a life. Everyday people are getting shot, tortured, raped, and murdered. I've
never suffered through something that interesting. Maybe if I had, I could write about it and find my clarity.
I rather stick to horror though. Evil is more comfortably portrayed under the guise of fiction. Parents can
tell their children that monsters don't exist and omit the ugly truth that the scariest creature in the darkness
is a human.
I am the ultimate monster and have ruined and corrupted you. I am the zombie that ate up your
innocence and now I leave you among the walking dead. You are just like me. I see it in your growing
immunity to hits that would once make you cough for hours and the emptiness of your gaze. If I could
go back and somehow free you from me before this infection of misery took hold of you, I would.
Maybe I should have let you leave that time you tried. You would argue that would still be too late
because you were ruined in the dark of that basement. When will you stop this forced stupidity for my
benefit? I might as well have been that monster in the darkness that night because I have dominated
you ever since. You have stayed loyal to me all this time because I took you when you thought nobody
else would. Instead of loving you, I have transferred my disgust for myself onto you. I am sorry but am
sure I could never have helped you. How can one drowning person save another? I can only hope that
with my departure, you will be able to find some warmth in your last years. Pessimistic as always, I am
doubtful that you will. Then again, I have always been useless at writing happy endings.